


Swapped

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In reply to an old prompt on the kink meme, in which Sherlock and John are involved in the Yard's secret Santa gift swap and their gifts for one another become gifts for Sally and Anderson...thanks to some sneaky Yarder elf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swapped

Sally stared into the box in her lap, wondering if this was some especially clever coded message from Anderson. He wasn’t the idiot Sherlock made him out to be but neither was he especially esoteric enough to create an elaborate secret sign for her, expressing his love (she hoped, but more likely his lust). The vacuum-wrapped brain looked rather baleful in the otherwise empty box, the sparkling paper in a heap at her feet and the green bow perched delicately in her hair where she had placed in in her excitement. She and Anderson had worked hard to ensure they received one another’s names in the exchange, even bribing Barbara,the department secretary, to rig the name draw. Now, Sally wondered just what the Hell her lover had been thinking. _Cor, if this is some leftover from a case he’s working on, I’ll kill him._ She gingerly lifted the plastic-sealed brain and looked for identifying marks. Finding none, she replaced the lid on the box and rose to her feet, scowl firmly in place. “What’d you get then?” Lestrade asked, a garish, light-up tie slung over his shoulder (gift from his Secret Santa,she hoped, and not his own sartorial choice).

“A piece of someone’s mind,” she replied, voice tart, and began picking her way through the crowded room to find Anderson.

Anderson stared at the t-shirt dangling from his fingertips. **I’m With Stupid!** it proclaimed, an arrow beneath the legend pointing to the wearer’s right and left. “What the Hell...”

tucked below the shirt, about a pound of rocks and stones lay in neat rows in the box, some with what looked to be blood stains still present.

“Oi, Anderson,” Sally called, closing in like a ship under full mast. “I need to speak with you!”

“Same here!” He sidestepped John Watson, capturing Sally’s elbow and leading her into an empty office.

“That was odd,” John commented, stopping next to Sherlock. “You alright, then?” Sherlock looked paler than usual, eyes wide and fixed on John as if the detective had just seen a ghost. “Sherlock? Oi!” He snapped his fingers near Sherlock’s ears. “I think you’ve had a bit too much punch, mate.”

“I haven’t had any of that swill,” Sherlock replied, face shifting back to a normal (for him) expression. He shoved something into his coat pocket--John thought he caught a glimpse of familiar red and silver wrapping paper--and sniffed. “I’m leaving. You may stay, if you desire. I have thinking to do.”

“I haven’t even opened your present yet! You know, I think this swap was rigged...” he trailed off, staring at Sherlock’s retreating back. John frowned and debated going after him, but this was the first Christmas ‘do he’d been to in ages and it felt _nice_ to be around people he liked, people having fun, and no sign of inbound mortars, not a trace of a serial killer to chase down. He was still frowning when he opened the silver-wrapped box with the tag marked ‘from Sherlock’ on one corner. It was a small box, easily hidden in John’s palm. He thought it might be cuff links (Sherlock had often remarked, with some annoyance, that John’s wardrobe lacked proper accessories. And class). Or possibly, knowing Sherlock, something grim. _Perhaps a calcified tumor, or a bit of fingernail..._ John turned his back to the crowded room and thumbed open the small box, only to choke on his own breath a moment later. “Christ...”

Sherlock was perched on the arm of the sofa when John made it back to the flat. He was not in his ‘thinking pose,’ however. He was perched like a vulture, stripped to his shirt sleeves and trousers, bare toes curling into the upholstery as he stared at the door. “John. Good. I’ve thought about it and yes. My answer is yes.”

“Sherlock,” John began, only to cut himself off with a yelp as Sherlock launched himself at John, bounding across the room and shoving him into the wall. “What the actual fuck is going on?” John demanded, face bare inches from Sherlock’s own. “I need to talk to you about...about that thing you gave me.”

“That _thing_ belonged to a rather nice older woman who died of what passes for natural causes these days,” Sherlock intone, disapproval tinging his words. “I thought you might like it. It’s...it’s symbolic.”

John nodded. “I figured as much. It’s a woman’s, after all... I couldn’t figure out if you were calling me a girl or trying to...well, trying to tell me something.” The ring _was_ pretty, but they had only been truly open about their flirting for a few weeks and hadn’t even snogged properly yet (though John had a feeling that was about to change in the next few minutes...). “It didn’t, you know, belong to your grandmother or something, did it?”

Sherlock made a face. “How gauche. No, a perfect stranger. Molly helped pick it out.” He could feel John’s heart where they were chest to chest and the steady, hard thump of it made Sherlock feel grounded, certain. The flirting, the innuendo and tension were not a game, after all. Not some latent habit of John’s, not strictly boredom and base attraction. No, Sherlock knew, seeing that little packet of a brochure and tickets and a floral, florid guest card, that this was what he wanted, that _John_ was what he wanted in new ways, more ways than before. He felt complete, as trite as that sounded and as much as he hated to admit it, and John felt the same way. A thousand little tells, that and half as many more deductions, had shown Sherlock that John cared for him, deeply, but the present, the sure sign of his _physical_ desire... that had capped it, well and proper. “John, your gift...”

“You like it, I take it?” John asked, voice soft and breathy. All of the blood in his head felt as if it were pooling in his groin, his prick stiffening despite John’s best efforts to think of anything other than Sherlock, pressed close and smelling so damned good that it should be a sin. He had spent weeks gathering the stones from the crime scenes they had visited, writing letters to people Sherlock had helped in some of the more far flung ones and claiming they needed one last bit of evidence. John knew that he probably seemed mental, going about London to gather pebbles and stones, sending emails and letters to ask people to mail him bits of rock, but it was the one thing he could think of that Sherlock didn’t have. Bits of his triumphs, concrete, tangible proof. He had considered having them mounted but stopped himself short of that. Maybe, John thought, for his birthday... Sherlock’s breath hissed in his ear and snapped him back to the moment.

“You’re thinking too loudly, John.” Sherlock kissed him then, not at all chaste and not at all soft. It wasn’t the kiss of a man seeking permission, wanting tender embraces, but a man on a mission.

For John, the next few moments were a blur. He parted his lips for Sherlock and moaned at the taste of him, the wine and chocolate from earlier and the faint tang of tobacco that he would deny smoking if John asked now. He was pushed, pulled, frotted and turned until he was on his back, half on the sofa, Sherlock atop him, panting against John’s neck as the kiss broke. “Oh, God,” John groaned. “Sherlock, I want... I think that...oh, fuck!” He knew that they needed to discuss this, to sort it out, but rational John was swallowed whole by needful, willful, _warmwetohmygod_ Sherlock. Long, clever fingers teased open the flies of John’s trousers and slid beneath the waistband of his pants, making him gasp in surprise. “Sherlock! Wait!”

Stilled by John’s fingers on his wrist, Sherlock raised a brow. “We don’t have to wait for Paris, John. Anyone else, I would say it was trite but coming from you...” He trailed off, lips curling into a Cheshire grin. John was gaping at him, silent, so he took the moment. Sherlock’s smile disappeared and,for one quick moment, he looked deadly serious. Before John could summon any words, Sherlock dipped his head and took the head of John’s cock into his mouth.

A thousand things flew through John’s mind: why, what, and how being the three most common topics of those winged wonderings. They were subsumed by _Oh God!_ and _I think I must be dying... I had some sort of aneurysm and these are my death throes..._ A sudden, subtle scrape of Sherlock’s teeth on his sensitive foreskin snapped John out of his reverie, making him gasp and arch, shoving his cock further into Sherlock’s mouth. Judging by the approving hum around his length, John surmised that Sherlock enjoyed that and found himself thrusting again, then again, until his hips seemed to set up a rhythm independent of his brain, Sherlock’s hums and wet licking sounds making the knot in John’s belly tighten more and more with each passing second. John was not as young as he once was but he knew that he was embarrassingly close to coming already, after just a few minutes in Sherlock’s mouth. He gulped a breath, then another, and as he exhaled, words fell out. “Oh, God, your fucking mouth! Jesus,Sherlock, you’re amazing, this is amazing! Fuck, please! Oh, God, I’m so fucking close...”

Sherlock pulled away with a wet pop and took a gasping breath. “Do it, then, John! Come. Come now!”

John was nothing if not good at following direct orders. The first hot spurt of orgasm hit as Sherlock’s mouth closed around his cock head again. He was fairly certain that he was saying something coherent but he couldn’t be sure, so intense was his pleasure and his focus on the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue lapping at his slit, those long fingers pressing just so against his perineum.. “God, let me breathe,” he finally managed, closing his eyes and gasping as Sherlock pulled slowly away.

Sherlock waited until John had regained some composure before resting his head on the doctor’s knee and reaching for his hand, twining their fingers together. “I had suspected, but your gift tonight confirmed it. I needed to think, to consider... and I’m rather ashamed at how long it took.”

“A box of rocks brought this on?” John laughed, feeling at once afloat and anchored, surprised by the turn of events but... at ease, deep inside, peaceful as if something finally made sense.

“Rocks? No... the little brochure for the hotel in Paris, the certificate for the lover’s weekend...” Sherlock sat back, frowning. “Rocks, John?”

John straightened. “Um yeah... I collected stones from all of the scenes we’ve gone to together... Labeled them and all. Sort of...sentimental but... Wait, Paris? Lover’s weekend? What about that ring? That _woman’s_ ring, might I add!”

“Ring? John, I gave you a brain. To...to show you’re in my thoughts.” He was blushing but it just could not be helped. “My own sentimentality making a rare appearance, to be sure.”

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “I didn’t give you a weekend in Paris.”  
“And I didn’t give you a ring... Wait, why would you think I gave you a ring? John...”

“Don’t look so worried! I was going to tell you no, that this was too fast and besides I don’t wear ladies’jewelry.” Sherlock relaxed against his leg and John continued, “Though some might say this was too fast too...”

“Are you one of them?”

“No... No, I don’t think that I am.” John smiled suddenly, and shook his head. “What happened to our gifts, I wonder?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, his voice low and rough as he rose to his feet and pulled John along, “there really is a Father Christmas.”

 

Barbara giggled into her wassail and leaned in close. “Well, Greg, I did it!”

Lestrade smiled and patted her shoulder. “Out of curiosity, how did you rig it?”

“I have my ways,” she giggled. “Greg, we’re under the mistletoe...”

He sighed. It was a small price to pay for finally making those two get off the pot and take some sort of action...


End file.
